


make love out of it

by ClementineKitten



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Character Study, Getting Together, M/M, Making Out, Persona 5: The Royal Spoilers, Pining, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, extremely poetic descriptions of gay yearning, not full on smut but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24543295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineKitten/pseuds/ClementineKitten
Summary: "Il me manque" is a French expression that means "I miss him." However, if translated a little more directly with no attention paid to language conventions, it means "he is missing me."23 years old and months deep into therapy, Akechi Goro has moved into a new apartment to get a bit of a fresh start. The last thing he expects (or needs) is to run into Kurusu Akira at a hole-in-the-wall café.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 22
Kudos: 276





	make love out of it

**Author's Note:**

> this "takes place after p5r" -- meaning i reference and state endgame spoilers, but overall the story isn't much tied to it, because i haven't fully completed the third trimester myself, just watched some plot relevant scenes on youtube. so... don't read if you don't wanna be spoiled on the outcome of the final palace (ruler, twists, etc)  
> i'm not used to writing angst so this is an exploration of that, these characters, and the many ways i interpret their dynamic. hope you enjoy!

_best coffee brand_

Tired, eyes drooping, but with a racing mind, Akechi taps the edge of his laptop. Outside of the window, a darkened violet sky stares back, agonized, at him.

There are no stars tonight, he realizes. 

He hadn't thought about those kinds of things in a while.

_strongest coffee brand_

If he's not going to sleep anyways, he can at least be productive.

_cafés near me open_

That's when he hears the voice of his therapist in his head, a niggling little truth, that "you shouldn't have to be productive all the time, Akechi-san, and it is fine to just simply be." Allow yourself a chance to breathe, she had said.

_coffee to fill the hole in my heart_

Nothing a little sardonic humour can't solve, right? 

CTRL+W. CTRL+W. CTRL+W.

_how to feel like a human being again_

Control. W.

An airplane tower blinks distantly, a comforting blip of red and white stark against the night. It's only about 10, and he sees people mill about in the streets below, completely unaware that he was watching them. Completely unaware that he even existed at all.

"Akechi-san, the fact that you live for the validation of people whom you don't know is a core mindset-- which means it will be hard to change, or even get rid of."

He peers down. These people don't know who he is, and he's fine with that, which means he's healthy. Problem solved.

"It's fine to use humour as a coping mechanism, but you need to be able to distinguish between that and gallows humour."

Ah, the therapy ate away at his favourite passtime-- snark.

He finds himself Googling his own name, fingertips ghosting over the keys, willed by a force not belonging to him.

_akechi goro_

He closes that tab before it fully loads. Maybe not the wisest decision he's made; and well, he's made quite a few poor ones over the course of his life.

Surely there's a better use for his time than pointlessly Googling and meandering uselessly through pages of search results. Like editing his résumé.

_Hi, my name is Akechi Goro. I'm 23 years old, and I have work experience in law enforcement as a detective, and murder._

The thought makes him shudder. He's glad he was pitied enough by Sae to be kept aboard. In bouncing between his work under her, university, and therapy sessions, it seemed like any chance he had to catch his breath was followed immediately by someone shoving a chloroform-soaked rag directly into his face. Suffocating, in only so many words.

_can i put five hour energy into coffee_

This coffee tangent he's gotten on, egged on by the way his eyelids threaten to shut altogether, whirlwinds thoughts and memories of times long past into his mind.

What's it been, five, six years? Since he left his phantom thievery behind.

(Since Akira went home.)

Since he graduated high school.

(Since he had seen Akira.)

He really should stop kidding himself. We tell ourselves lies we want to believe, Sasaki-san had said. He knows what the coffee is bringing to mind and he knows what he's missing.

He wonders if the staff at LeBlanc would recognize him if he went in for a cup. He has shorter hair. He's a little taller.

The Boss's daughter would probably be there, though. She would definitely recognize him. The fact that he hadn't been keeping up with the lot of them either would bring more stress than he considered necessary over coffee.

...It was really good, though.

He closes the lid of his laptop and draws his curtain over the window, picking over to his bed. The sheets are cold and unfamiliar just like the rest of the looming house. Boxes pile up where he can't see them, and in the corner of his room. He's only unpacked the bare necessities (he doesn't own too much, either way), and wrestling with his bedframe had sapped him of the energy to continue unpacking. He pulls his covers over him and stares at the wall, feeling like a ghost in his old haunts, rather than a person in a new apartment.

He'll be sore tomorrow, he figures. He didn't want to pay for movers, so he rented a truck and moved all his boxes himself. He's not _weak,_ perse, but he's definitely not the type of person who can do such things with ease.

There's an ache in his arms and back that he feels distinctly already.

"A move may be stressful, but it's also an opportunity for a new beginning. Let yourself be at ease in how odd things feel at first."

Yeah, alright, Sasaki-san.

Whatever you say.

-

Akechi wakes up with a crick in his neck and a back that screams as he sits up. Well, who could have seen that one coming?

He rises, much to his body's protests, hungry and with a dry mouth.

Hunger, he realized back when he started seeing Sasaki-san some years ago, was a weird feeling. In his youth, there were incredibly large stretches of time where he had no appetite, and ate out of necessity so that he didn't pass out on the job. He would work on cases for hours, burn himself out on interviews, only realizing his low blood sugar when he got up and the world spun around him.

Waking up hungry, he assumes, was a sign of mental growth, but also not the most pleasant thing.

...Though, when weighed against other things he has felt in the past, he would take it in a heartbeat.

He grabs an apple out of his fridge, chewing thoughtfully as he surveys his new apartment. The one he lived in during high school and university had far too many memories that clung to the colour of the paint and the wear of the door hinges. In graduating, he had opted to move, an event which he masked as a departure from his student life and step forward into his adulthood.

Of course, things were rarely as cut and dry.

In a moment of kindness, Sae had given him the day off to reorient himself, and finish unpacking.

This apartment is sterile. Unwelcoming. Inoffensive.

He greatly prefers it.

He gravitates toward his laptop as he finishes up his breakfast. Coffee is on his mind. The clock in the corner of his screen blinks _6:57 A.M_ back at him, but he doesn't want to think about caffeine right then.

(In a situation where he's progressed so far in his therapy and moved himself out, thinking of Akira is still a sore spot, and incessant itch, one you're not supposed to scratch but it feels so good to do so.)

_lowkey cafés in the area_

_things to do in a new house_

_how to most efficiently unpack boxes_

_ways to bulk recycle cardboard_

He pokes around uselessly for some time before figuring getting to work is the best option for his day off. 

The apartment is quiet. He doesn't like the quiet, he never has. It weighs on him, reminding him of times long past, coaxing thoughts into his mind. It's not as if he doesn't find solace in being alone, there's just… a stark difference in being alone and being lonely.

It was a conscious feeling. Once, he had known what it was like to _be_ part of something, no matter any ulterior motives.

(He'd like to believe it was all ulterior motives, at some point. Keeping people at an arm's length was a talent.)

Though both (lonely and alone) would describe how he feels as he unpacks his belongings. Dishes. Linens. The rest of his clothes. Books. Cords, chargers, electronics. Other paraphernalia.

A booklet tumbles out-- something he was remiss in not recycling. An old workbook, given to him by some mental health professional years ago when he wasn't seeing Sasaki-san yet.

He never looked through it. He's reticent to do so now. Hell, he wouldn't have brought it if it weren't mixed in with his other books.

He tosses it aside.

It's not essential. His plan for the day is to arrange some of his furniture, unpack the rest of his dishes, get his food in order, and make the place look less like a disaster zone. The weighty promises of the day's activities, coupled with his soreness, coaxes a sigh from his lips.

One step at a time, he reminds himself. One step at a time. Moving: one step. Unpacking: one step. Forgetting about Akira…

Distinctly more steps, deemed unnecessary by Sasaki-san. It is okay to feel, okay to miss, she had said. You can't chase the past.

Was that what Akechi was doing? He had moved. He was in a new home. That seems, to him, to be the opposite of chasing the past. He was going to look forward, and blaze his own path in life.

_Joker..._

And yet his thoughts circle back to him, without fail. He’s like a lovesick child, in that way, reliving memories and touches that meant nothing and conversations that meant everything and exhaustive thinking that plagues him needlessly into the night. He doesn’t know what caused this, either. Is he feeling tender from the move, the change? Is his damned psyche taking advantage in this small vulnerability to torment him with thoughts of a boy whom he hated?

(Hated, really?)

He doesn’t need him. He _doesn’t_ \-- he’s living proof of that fact. But God, does he ever…

He pulls out a garish pink, green and orange button up shirt. Where the Hell did he get this? And more importantly, why did he bring it with him?

Looks like he has a lot of work today, and the sooner he gets a certain bespectacled, cat-wielding man out of his mind, the better.

-

Late in the evening, he’s made good progress. He’s gotten a good amount of furniture sorted into where it should be, the dishes are in order, his room looks more like _his_ room. But what he _really_ wants is a coffee. Caffeine at such a late hour was never a good idea, but he felt like it was deserved.

The thing was where to go for the elusive stimulant.

Lucily, his fervent Googling had led him to a few possibilities-- one such that interested him was a quaint little store called _Ash Confectioneries._ It was a café that sold all the normal kinds of drinks one would expect, and pastries. Akechi had little interest in the latter, however.

He shoulders his jacket and gets ready to leave. The store isn’t far from his apartment, a hole-in-the-wall, according to the reviews. He pulls on a hat and a pair of glasses; he doesn’t want to be recognized, not as the former Detective Prince, and not for all the baggage that comes along with the moniker. 

Though… it feels as if some of the public wouldn’t recognize him either way. It’s a difficult feeling with which to grapple.

The air outside is sharp with the sweetness of early Autumn. The sky above bleeds shades of muted purples and oranges, and the red sunlight dies on the large stretch of sidewalk in front of him. Leaves of all colours twirl and dance away from the few trees in the neighbourhood in the chill, settling on the pavement to crunch beneath his feet.

He passes people on the street. The evening is neither bustling nor quiet, but the breeze on his face and the indistinct chatter of pedestrians is a welcome reprieve from a day cramped up unpacking boxes with only the sound of the radio, a few podcasts, and his own thoughts to accompany him.

_Ash Confectioneries_ comes into view. Vines of ivy crawl up the side of the building, concealing worn bricks coloured burnt sienna. A rustic sign displays the name, and beside the door, there’s a chalkboard with _Special of the Week: 3-6-9, Foam so Fine! Choco-Hazel Latté: ¥600._ Akechi snorts in spite of himself.

A tinkly bell sounds as he steps in, and the first thing he notices is the overwhelming smell of coffee beans, presumably coming from a case filled with them off to one wall. A warm-looking woman with short brown hair smiles at him. “Welcome! What can I get you tonight?”

“Just a coffee is fine,” Akechi says. 

“And the type?”

Akechi scans the homey boards above the barista’s head filled with cute little nicknames for various blends and drinks. “Hm… Blue Mountain.”

“Excellent. That will be ¥250.” Akechi pays her the due amount. “Feel free to take a seat. Your drink will be ready in a moment.”

Akechi wanders over to a seat by the window. Booths are tucked into the walls and a few stools line the edge of the counter where his order was taken. He slides into one of the former and surveys the area. It’s quiet, with a few couples bent and conversing amongst themselves, and some people, sitting alone like he is, on their phones or laptops, and there’s even one person with a notebook, writing something. Across from him, on the table one over, there’s what appears to be a half-finished drink.

He retrieves his coffee soon after and puts in the milk and sweetener at a table filled with such add-ons and sips, satisfied and impressed with the taste, as he returns to his table. He needlessly eavesdrops on the people around him and stares out the window.

A door -- the bathroom -- closes behind him, and life turns in slow motion.

“Akechi?”

And like that, the leaf that managed to remain anchored through the tornado quivers and cleaves from the branch at the next breeze, no matter how slight. Akechi turns horribly in response to a voice he couldn’t forget even if he tried.

“Kurusu-kun. What a pleasant surprise.” 

He speaks thinly, and through clenched teeth.

Akira, dumbfounded, stands in a pair of black slacks and a taupe coat. The look of utter surprise briefly etched into his pretty face was something a younger Akechi would have most certainly relished in, and one that current day Akechi still derives a smack of pleasure from.

“It’s been a while,” he continues to the agog man, who has notably longer hair than he did in high school, and it curls, messily, around his ears and forehead. “And please, don’t be so loud.”

“You’re--” 

He eventually finds his composure, and walks with confident strides to the cup Akechi had noticed earlier, picks it up, and plunks down across from Akechi, eyes boring holes into the brunet.

Then he reaches out without hesitation and grabs Akechi’s wrist, which causes him to jerk away. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you’re real,” he responds, almost blankly, instead turning his hand to run his fingers through his bangs.

“Real? I’m insulted.” Years. It’s been years without Akira in his life. _Years._ And even with that agonizing lapse of time, it’s like he slips back so easily into conversation, has the wry smile return with aplomb. As if he never left.

...Though, he only left in physicality. He must be tired, running circles around Akechi's mind so often.

“I’m surprised, is all.” Akira’s face adopts a serious expression. “After what happened in Maruki’s palace, I thought you were…” he trails off. “Well, I guess thinking you’re dead has never paid off for me.” He gives Akechi a droll look.

What a dismal topic to joke about.

“You’ve got that one right,” Akechi murmurs over his coffee.

“So…” Akira looks lost for a heartbeat. “What have you been up to?”

Akechi would laugh if he wouldn’t draw concern from the other patrons. What a question, Kurusu-kun! What an apropo question, for one such as I, he undoubtedly thinks. “University. Work. Nothing new, I suppose. What about you?”

“Same.”

“Do you… still work at LeBlanc?”

Akira smiles a little at that. “No. I stop by to help out when I have free time, though. I never stopped liking coffee, though.” He traces the rim of his cup.

There’s a lull in the conversation. 

“I spoke with Sumire the other day,” Akira says nonchalantly enough, but the piercing look would be enough to send a chill down a person’s spine.

“Oh? And how is she?” Akechi responds, with as much insouciance to match.

“Keeping busy. She’s halfway across Japan, competing in a national competition tomorrow,” he informs Akechi. “Which you would know if you kept in touch.”

There’s the rub.

“I didn’t think there was much reason to.” A blatant untruth. “After all, our deal was… complete, yes? What’s done is done.”

“So, you just thought it was best to leave?”

“Kurusu-kun. What good do you think would have come from fraternizing with me?” He continues in a hushed tone, catching the barista giving him a curious look. “Think logically. Staying around me would only complicate your life, what with everything that happened. There was no need to do something so selfish.”

“You should consider the feelings of others.”

Akechi gives him a hard look.

“I understand, Akechi. I don’t have to like it,” Akira huffs.

“I’m glad we’ve come to a mutual agreement,” Akechi says, smiling pleasantly.

“It’s just that I -- we -- missed you. There was so much we couldn’t say, I mean…”

“You thought I was dead. You mentioned that earlier.”

Akira sighs, a heavy, melancholy thing. “For a little. But I wasn’t convinced. After all, you promised me a rematch, didn’t you?”

Akechi’s smile, for the first time since Akira had re-entered his life a mere few minutes above, touches his eyes with genuine glee. “You really _are_ intriguing.”

“Had you expected me to forget?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite so blunt.”

Akechi knew that what Akira and he had, in their school days, was… something. Something murky, indefinable, mired in quiet nights and intellectual debates and what Akechi would refer to as unashamed flirting on his part (was that part of the act, or not, Akechi had wondered many a time, when did the detective stop and the loneliness start?), but even without a name pinned to it, he knew it was something out of the ordinary. He had acknowledged that the boy made his tongue slip more times than he had expected (but perhaps not slip in every way he desired; perish the thought), and that what he felt for Akira was, undoubtedly and deeply unfortunately, more than what he should have.

His intentions, at least at first, had been to lower Akira’s guard, learn more about the Phantom Thieves’ enigmatic leader. At some point (or maybe it had been omnipresent), that had transformed into a wish to know about the _man_ Kurusu Akira, for even for a fleeting moment, sit down with someone and be a _teenager_ , act like he could forget the whims of fate he was tied up in like a prey animal in a snare.

And knowing how Akira and his team had outsmarted him, maybe he had had the very same objective.

When, then, had the both of them started to care?

(So aggressively that Maruki did what he did?)

(...And why did it hurt just as intensely as he enjoyed it?)

Why did he have to come back, goddammit?

“You underestimate me,” says Akira as Akechi dutifully drinks his coffee, hiding his mouth behind the cup.

“I have a history of doing so,” Akechi mumbles through the rim.

Akira hums amicably, and the two finish their drinks without another word. Tension builds between them like water filling a sink clogged with soap scum-- irritatingly, but not without precedent. The palpable unease in the oppressive air makes Akechi stand quickly once his coffee is done with.

“It was nice to see you again, Kurusu-kun,” he says about as honestly as he can, “but I must be going, now. I still have boxes to unpack.”

Akira gets to his feet, joining him. “You’ve moved?”

“Ah. Well, yes, just recently. A new apartment.” Akechi puts his cup into a recycling bin. “I’ve lived in the same house since high school. It was time for a change, no?”

“Makes sense.” 

Akira shifts his weight from foot to foot. Neither of them move.

“Do you want to…” Akira starts, but seems to freeze in his words with nowhere to go. He quiets. Akechi raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he finishes, and starts for the door. Akira follows him.

He begins his walk home -- it’s much darker, intimate, out -- and, again, Akira matches his pace. He feels unsettled, though not badly, as one may expect from the use of the word. Just below his chest, through his ribs, at the top of his abdomen, a growing sense of trepidation, of exhilaration, makes itself known.

Heartburn, maybe.

“What’s your game?” Akechi demands.

“Don’t know what you mean,” Akira replies smoothly. “This is the way I came.”

“Is that so?”

He smiles.

When Akechi comes to the stairs leading to his house, Akira still hasn’t left his side. Akechi comes to a pause, and the Fall wind ruffles his hair. Behind Akira, who is looking at him with even, calculated countenance, cheeks lightly flushed, stars slowly begin to wink into the darkened fuschia sky, and Akechi makes a decision before he has time to regret what he’s about to say.

He clears his throat.

“Well, are you just going to stand there like an idiot?” is what comes out.

“You have a way with words,” Akira responds drily.

Akechi chuckles as he unlocks his door. His heart, independent of his brain, has begun to dangerously speed up. The sound of the key rattling in the lock seems somehow deafening. 

-

Akechi's bedroom was painted in strokes of liquid dusk, blacks that once seemed dour turned brilliant, content streaks of brown. It was as if he was walking into the room for the first time, breathing in warm air into tired lungs. Everything was new and exciting and surreal.

(And that's saying something, since he's a very new resident himself.)

The door closes with a soft click behind him. Akira. His throat pinches. He doesn't turn around, and instead floats over to his bed, sitting on its edge. The sky, sequestered beyond the cool glass of his window, is desperately nostalgic, abated by Akira's breathing behind him.

"So." 

The man in question stands in front of him, peering down at his form. Always peering down. "You're not going to sit?" Akechi responds.

Akira gives him a scrutinizing look. "Did you invite me over to sit and chat on your bed?"

"I don't recall really inviting you over in the first place."

"I guess you're right." He smirks subtly. God, Akechi hated what that had the power to do to him. Akira settles down beside him and they sit, uncomfortably, pulled taut like a rope worried to the point of snapping.

Then he moves. Akira's hand finds the place where his shirt meets his skin, right at the collar. Akechi nearly jumps out of his flesh.

"Akira, what do you think you're doing?"

"I'm not doing anything."

Their eyes meet, a flint grey against deep reddish hazel, and Akira's grip shifts to the back of his neck. _He's asking for permission._ Of course he is.

"It seems to me," Akechi murmurs, giving a slight nod, "that you're up to something."

Akira slowly removes his glasses.

He leans forward, his scent that of warmth, of spice, of coffee, and Akechi finds himself wondering, distantly, how the Hell he managed to smell the same as he did in high school, all these years later. Their lips connect, tentatively, _too_ tentatively. He's being too gentle, the ass. Akechi presses into it, and Akira pushes back, his other hand coming up to fit the curve of Akechi's jaw.

_No. Don't push_ me _back, you…_

Akechi's fingertips find black curls and he takes control. Akira's back meets the bed sheets with a gentle thump as the world dissolves around the two of them. Akira's mouth is warm and his tongue teases against Akechi's teeth. One of Akechi's hands drops to the bed to steady himself as he leans further, further, and further still into the intoxication that is his rival.

What is he doing? Won't this just hurt him more? Twist the knife deep in his gut a little more? He's kissing Akira, selfishly, and he wants to do even more, selfishly as well. He pulls at Akira's hair, eliciting a quiet moan that disappears into Akechi's lips.

No. He wants this. In the moment, it's his desire that belongs to him and him alone.

No one has him under their thumb. Not any longer.

"Goro…"

Akechi's heart leeches into his throat, and in its place, a fuzzy, indistinct warmth thrums through his chest.

"You know, this isn't exactly a friendly thing," Akechi reminds him as he pulls away for a breath, a sardonic touch to his words.

"Well, then." Akira's index finger trails to Akechi's bottom lip, and rests there like he's silencing him. It sends a frustrated thrill through his stomach. "I guess we're not friends."

"Were we ever more than rivals?" Akechi asks, eyebrows twitching downward.

"I'd like to think."

"Mhm." Akechi slips his tongue into Akira's mouth, unable to further stand the heat of his breath gracing his lips. Akira's hands slide down, and he places them instead on Akechi's back, dancing up the skin beneath his shirt.

Akechi cups Akira's face fully with his hands, driving him into the bed, hungrily, needily, as he deepens the kiss with passion. Maybe what he's doing is in mourning for a high school romance that never came to fruition, but he knows for certain that it's him, in the present, who really wants to get to know the inside of Akira's mouth, the ins and outs. 

He takes his bottom lip between his teeth and bites, and a surprised -- but not displeased -- noise cheats out of Akira's mouth, sending another stab of heat spiraling down into him. He wants him to keep making that noise, again and again, be at Akechi's mercy, and look up at him with his cheeks red and eyes dumbly wide, shirtless, Akechi's hand flushed against sweat-licked chest as his heart beats, loud and erratic, deep in him.

"You can be rough, if you want," Akira breathes in a brief disconnect, as if he could hear Akechi's thoughts. "I kinda like it."

"Well, if you're offering." 

Akechi bites the edge of his mouth, where top lip joins bottom, and pulls away. Fingers in Akira's hair again, he pulls, _hard,_ and Akira's hands still beneath his ridden up shirt. Then, after a moment, he presses his knee up against Akechi's inner thigh, and he lets out a small, desperate whine. 

The kissing is nice, it's _more than nice,_ actually, but Akechi's need for something more was growing ever more present and voracious. Akira's mouth leaves his and trails down his chin, to his neck, hot kisses pressed to the sensitive skin of his throat. Flushed with pleasure, Akechi moans. _Do something more. More, Akira. Come on, Joker._

He leans forward to nip at Akira's ear, biting down into the soft skin of the lobe, when Akira starts to sit up. Akechi slides into Akira's lap, straddling his thighs, as Akira's hands, hot and meticulous, draw Akechi's shirt off his body and fling it to the side. His fingers, deft and deliberate, come back to Akechi's shoulder blades, and his lips return to his collarbone.

Akechi undos the buttons of Akira's shirt in turn and pushes it off his shoulders, causing it to flutter listlessly to the bed. He digs his nails into Akira's back, causing the other man to inhale sharply through his teeth. _Yeah. Like that._ Heat rises in Akechi, so high it threatens to spill over, rip him apart, bubble about at his seams, as Akira's lips leave bruises, working his way down Akechi's chest and stomach. A whimper lets loose from his mouth, and he bites back moaning Akira's name as his tongue trails down his navel, and he shifts from the bed to kneel on the floor.

Akechi's breath hitches as Akira's fingers trace over the zipper of Akechi's pants, and he delicately pulls it down. Akechi leaves patterns of scratch marks like red ribbons across the man's back, exhaling, heavy, meaningfully. His skin is sweaty, pinkish, as Akira's tongue stops just before the band of Akechi's boxers, hands pressed to his inner thighs.

"What is it," Akechi demands -- not asks -- roughly. Akira brings his face up, flustered, eyes like coal, looking distractingly gorgeous.

"I've changed my mind, Akechi Goro, I'm not going to have sex with you the first time I see you in years."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Then what the Hell," Akechi says, laboured, "is this?"

Akira's eyes twinkle as he smirks. "Foreplay." He stands up slightly and leans back over Akechi, himself wedged between the brunet's legs, and dammit, the fucker can obviously see and _feel_ that he's hard, and presses further into him anyways. Akechi moans in spite of himself, Akira's form looming over him. 

"I don't appreciate being played with," Akechi growls.

"I know."

"Motherf--" 

Akira palms at his crotch and he cuts himself off with a whine. _Motherfucker,_ he finishes in his head. _I am not going to be made a fool of by this man, nor am I going to beg him for a single thing._

That's what his brain thinks, but his body responds far too well to the stimulus, and he weakens. He grabs Akira's face and brings it to him, kissing him rougher, more passionately. His mouth is wet and hot and Akechi bites down on his tongue, securing a whimper. He wants it to hurt. He doesn't draw away for a breath until his chest aches and screams for air. 

He presses back into Akira's lips. "Goro," he moans. "Goro, Goro, Goro…"

"Keep my name out of your dirty mouth," Akechi hisses.

Akira's tongue swirls over Akechi's lips and he sits up on Akechi's abdomen. He's hard, too, and he grins down at Akechi.

"You're not going to fuck me, but you're going to do this?" Akechi asks, eyebrows drawn.

"I think it's fun." Akira's finger follows Akechi's clavicle.

"I don't like being left unsatisfied."

"Is this not enough?"

Akechi grumbles to himself indistinctly, and Akira crawls off of him.

In a moment of blind stupidity, Akechi, horny and sad and realizing just how much he missed the former Phantom Thief, how much his life had changed without him in it, blurts "will you stay the night?"

Akira looks at him, and instead of the seductive glaze that had marred his eyes for the past minutes glaring back at him, surprise lights his gaze.

"Ugh, fuck. Nevermind. You can just take your shirt and go--"

"You want a guy who's not going to have sex with you to stay here with you?"

Akechi gives him a look of defiance, his heart still thrumming in his chest, thumping hard against his sternum. _I don't need you, but God, do I…_

"Want you," he mumbles. "To. Stay." 

Akira looks at him, shell-shocked, for a few more moments. "Wipe that look off your face, or I'll kick you out."

The man edges over to him, leans down, and presses a kiss to the corner of his lips. It's sweet, it's gentle, it's very much a contrast to what the pair were doing prior, and it's almost comical as a result. _Your back is probably bleeding because of me, and you want to be chaste now?_

"Don't do this to me, Akira."

"I almost just gave you a handjob."

Akira, still leaned over Akechi, jerks back when the latter tries to nip him in the chin. Akechi pulls himself up to sit, and looks at his bare walls, the walls that just watched him submit, give himself to a man he tried so hard to convince himself didn't matter. He didn't matter.

But Akira moaning his first name echoes in his mind, and he flusters all over again, like an idiot. He's truly an idiot letting his rival back in, as intimately as this, and now, he's dropped the ball.

Akechi isn't so childish as to mark what he feels as love. But what he does feel, staring challengingly into Akira, is decidedly as strong as such. "I want you to _give_ me an answer."

"Hmm…" He touches his chin, a mockery of being deep in thought. "I'll stay. But only because I missed you."

"Fuck off."

The two of them take turns bathing, and in the steam of the shower, as water winks down his ruddy red skin, he thinks of what this shower is doing to him in the moment. What's it removing? It's erasing the sweat, but it can't touch the smudges of purple that read like a story all down his front. When Akira had showered, the water could not remove the scratches Akechi had painted across his back.

The water swirls down the dimly lit drain and takes with it some of the memories of the night.

He gets into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and walks out to meet Akira, lying in Akechi's bed, clad only in his underwear, scrolling through his phone. He's lying in Akechi's bed, a bed soiled by-- what, exactly? A promise? A trick? A mistake?

...A premonition? 

"You pull no punches, do you?" Akechi asks.

"What do you mean?" Akira blinks up innocently.

Akechi shuts his curtain, then clambers over him without much of a thought to end up between Akira and the wall.

"I only have one pillow," Akechi observes.

"I can use you."

"I think you will not."

"It's fine." Akira puts down his phone and shifts over to Akechi. Oddly enough, the simple movement stirs as much within Akechi's buzzing chest as the making out had, and he wishes not to spend time thinking about the reasons that may be. The light is off-- they had had no chance, nor need, to turn it on in the first place, and the soft, amiable environment it creates is headache-inducing. Every minute twitch Akira makes, he feels, he hears, and it resonates deep in his bones, pounds like blood in his veins.

Akira slings an arm over Akechi's shoulders, like they're a real couple cuddling in bed, and not high school not-so-sweethearts trying to feel something. A caricature of a romance. "What are you--?"

"Good night, Goro," Akira murmurs, close to his ear, so close he can feel his breath.

Ah, what he did to him.

-

The sunlight eases Akechi out of his sleep, rousing him warmly and gently as he blinks his eyes open. _Why sunlight?_ he thinks, perhaps incoherently, as his eyes adjust to the culprit.

With the curtains pulled open, early morning light bends around Akira's form where he rests on the window sill, drinking from one of Akechi's mugs. The pale glow frames him like a halo does an angel, and Akechi, blinking back the sleep, keeps himself from snorting at the elegant simile.

“Morning,” Akira greets, voice still husky with sleep.

“Ugh… Likewise.” Akechi rubs at his eyes as he sits up. Memories of last night fill his psyche with dizzying speed, and he lets out a small groan-- of tiredness, of realization, really, who could say?

Akira gives him a small, knowing smile, and ruins everything.

Because it was then that Akechi realizes, with a pain so great he has not felt anything akin to it in years, just how much he desires Akira. Shamelessly, and ruthlessly, the image of the man, shirtless and comfortable, leaning against Akechi's window, was the consolidation of all that he yearned for. It wasn't as if this was him taking notice of his feelings, no-- this anagnorisis came like a whirlwind, unwanted and frighteningly, revealing to him just how deeply these emotions ran within him, not unlike a river that still trips beneath metres of ice.

He wonders, too, if things would have turned out this way had he not cut ties with Akira after he returned to his hometown, tried to reach out to him. God, he craves him so much it _hurts._ The anger which had dampened in him after years of therapy flickers, a spark in a house fire, set alight by the coal-coloured, unravelling eyes of Kurusu Akira. Within Akechi swells far too many contradicting feelings, all centred on the man before him, and he was reminded (not that he could ever forget), as he stares, what made him fall so hard, so fast, so undoubtedly pitifully, in his high school years.

His unwilling hamartia stands before him, and he cannot even begin to voice what haunts him so.

Becoming attached was never something he intended to do. But as with most things in his youth and adolescence, it came to him without consent, and persisted even now, to an age where he has gained some agency over his life's trajectory. How cursed he feels, because in all honesty, what reason has he given Akira to stay with him? 

But he wants him. He wants him so badly he doesn't know what to do with himself. It's deeper than anything physical or sexual (though that’s not as if it’s divorced), and he remembers, with a sickening jolt, why he got away in the first place.

"Don't put thoughts in my head anymore than you'd put words in my mouth," Akira says suddenly.

“Akira…” His lips seem to form around the words his throat cannot vocalize. His doomed passion regards him warily.

_How melodramatic I am._

“Goro, do you think there’s any benefit to a relationship like this?” Akira asks first. The question stuns Akechi momentarily, and he blinks, hard, as Akira advances toward him. Somewhat stiltedly, he sits beside Akechi on the bed and angles his body towards him. Slowly, he raises his hand. His knuckles brush against Akechi’s swollen lips with deft tenderness. “I missed you, asshole. I _miss_ you, present tense.” His thumb settles on his cheek. His similar words to what he said last night in bed carry more weight in this liquid daylight.

_Don’t say things like that. Don’t make this idea real. I hate that attitude of yours-- I don’t know if I could handle someone like you._

But all the same, Sasaki-san’s words echo in his mind, pinging around as Akira smooths his face, ever so gently. To be kinder. To let others be kinder. He wants to yell and scream and feed into his teenage id, thrash senselessly and without purpose, demand Akira tell him why the Hell he would want to stay.

And when, if he did stay, would he, inevitably, leave?

There was so much about Akechi that was disgusting, unlovable, untouchable. Ugly. Who knew what disaster would befall the two of them if such things continued to go on? Even with the memories of Akira’s body, smattered against his skin like stars in the Milky Way, who’s to say he wouldn’t get fed up? Lose interest? Cease to find him fun?

“Did you miss me? You never responded.”

There’s an inviting, desirable vulnerability, there. “Does it matter?” Akechi, ever the anti-hero of his own story, responds.

Akira takes his hand away; Akechi childishly wishes he hadn’t. “You’re being selfish,” he points out, no malice behind his words. “You come back into my life, I, I, even briefly, I thought you were dead, for _fuck’s_ sake, Akechi, we almost had sex! Doesn’t that matter?” His face is hard. “Because it sure matters to _me._ ”

The use of his last name when the first name treatment since the night prior had persisted stings Goro a little more than it has any right to.

“You should already know,” Akechi starts, keeping as composed as possible, “what happens when you involve yourself with someone like me. I didn’t ask to see you again, either, for the record,” he tacks on in an utterance.

“My choice is my choice. You think your feelings are the only ones that matter here? Goro, I _care_ about you,” Akira says intensely. _Yes, let that disgust seep into your words._ “I... kept your glove.”

_What?_

That makes Akechi’s retort curl up and die on his tongue. “Well, you always were a sap,” he substitutes hotly, looking away. But it’s too late; Akira got the outcome he wanted, and a satisfied smirk stretches his lips.

“Goro, please.” Then, quick as a flash, as if he was simply changing masks, the humour vanishes. “Give me an answer.”

“As to whether or not I missed you?”

Akira nods.

The passing warm blue of the sky outside catches Akechi’s attention. “What do you think?”

“Why don’t you tell me yourself?”

_Because I’m_ scared.

“What?” Akira continues. “...Too much of a coward?”

_Am I, now?_

Akechi draws in a sharp inhale. Akira appeals to far too many of his weak points, and the fantasy of him beneath him, submissive, slicked with sweat, flickers through his thoughts. He swallows a breath. “One could assume.. That I did,” he says, strugglingly. Then, realizing that the sugarcoating is worthless, finishes with a pointed “yes.”

Akira looks a little relieved at that. “Do you form these kinds of bonds with all of your work associates?” Akechi inquires.

“Work associates… Is that how you think of friends?”

“Friends, huh?”

Akira sighs, and edges a little closer. For some stupid reason, the simple movement nearly causes Akechi to jump. “You’re an ass, you know. All of us, to a degree, felt _something_ for you. And you had the audacity to…” He trails off.

“You really are a fool,” Akechi says, resigned, and he drops his volume. “As if you could feel for someone who used you.”

“Was that all you did? Used us? Used me?” Akira murmurs. His gaze whips up to glare at Akechi. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re no innocent party, but Goro…” He pushes messy black locks out of his forehead, then his hands slide to the back of his neck as he tilts his head back. “After _everything,_ after Shidou, and Maruki, and… this… I think I’ve made _my_ feelings clear.” He reaches a tentative finger toward the marked discolouration on Akechi’s neck.

“You really do irritate me,” Akechi reminds him as Akira’s hand finds and settles on his jawline. “So, what are you trying to say? That you’re in love with me or something? Because that may be the most inane thing you’ve said since we’ve met.”

Hurt flashes in those charcoal eyes, for a brief moment. “And what if I did?”

Akechi’s stomach, curled in on itself, feels like it’s about to explode. It’s not unlike the moment of suspense atop a rollercoaster, or at the apex of a swing’s arc, where everything inside a person soars and drops, all within a split second. Akira is the catalyst, he’s the person who pushes the swing, who throws the coaster’s lever, and he does it all with a coy, unassuming smile. Akechi looks down at his lap, and clenches and unclenches his fist.

“Why?” he whispers. His eyes sting.

Akira shrugs. “Is that something anyone can answer?”

“What a non-answer.”

“That’s what I just said,” Akira points out. “In love with you? I’m surely in _something_ with you.” He gestures vaguely into the still air. 

Akechi pinches the bridge of his nose. “Go on.”

“Don’t make me the idiot, here. I need your help if I’m going to make love out of it,” Akira pleads.

“Love…” The word is foreign, in this context, against his tongue. _I love this coffee, I love this and that, oh, do I love interviews! No, I’m not being facetious, I really do love all you’re doing for me._ He had said with his picturesque, people-pleasing smile. Never once has he said it to another person. Not like this. “What does that look like to you?” he challenges.

“Are you going to help me find out?”

Akechi’s throat burns like he had swallowed a match. 

This was it. This was a decision belonging to him and him alone. But, much like a marionette whose strings have long since been cut, he still, still, _still_ to this day, struggles to properly lift his hand, take that responsibility, find that agency within him. There was no one behind him, jerking him up and down, leaving him to his own devices for small, precious moments only to return to puppeteering soon after. The illusion of freedom had marked much of his childhood, and now, peering from beneath long, dark lashes, rests the gaze of the man who forced the scissors into the puppeteer’s hand.

Well, what use is there in having any restraint now?

Akira’s fingers work their way into Akechi’s hand, and he laces them wherein. The tension in his heart eases, for the briefest of times.

“I’d like a detailed itinerary.” Akira makes a face. “I want to know what I’m getting into. What’s so wrong with that? You expect me to go into this blind?”

“You play these sort of things by ear,” Akira says.

“Like you’re the expert.”

“Out of the two of us? Yeah.” Akira gives him a wry grin.

“Ugh.” Akira’s grip on his hand strengthens. “It’s not going to be pretty.”

“Well, you’re pretty, so it compensates.”

Imagine that such a stupid, not clever compliment makes Akechi red in the face.

“We can figure it out, together,” Akira mumbles, a lilt of pride in his voice. “But I won’t be going easy on you.”

“Like I’d want it any other way.”

Akira smirks. “It sucks to just have you to myself, though. I think you owe everyone else an apology.” He pauses. “Do you have other friends you talk to?”

“Colleagues, some people from university. What’s it matter?” Akechi sighs.

“Stop being difficult.” The humour has returned, once again, to lighten his voice.

“Is that what people call it nowadays?”

Akira leans into his shoulder, and Akechi lets him. His stomach, his chest, every single physical and mental part of him is turbulent with emotion, but he’s so, so warm. Each part of him is hot and alert, the muddled sleepiness gone from his mind. If there’s a human part to him, it’s the heart hammering in his chest that Akira can certainly hear.

Akira is with him, in his physicality. He’s real, here, with him. He can feel his skin, and the way the curvature of his face fits in the crook of his neck, solidifying his place in the world, with him, right next to him. 

Akechi’s mind tears itself apart and puts itself back together, when he touches him like that. Years later, he still can’t figure out the things that go on in that head of his.

He looks down at their threaded fingers. This means he wants this, too, right? _Wants this._ Akira is the reason his lips are puffy and bruised with a promise, and it just then hits him that he _wants_ this. It’s like the floor spiraled up from beneath his feet and smacked him in the face.

And yet, Akira was there to steady him.

Is this alright, he wonders, will this ever be alright?

Can we be alright, Akira, he ponders, foolishly, can we?

As Akira nestles further into him, whispering unintelligible sweet nothings -- at least, that's what Akechi thinks he's doing -- and squeezes his hand tighter, he gives Akechi his silent answer.

**Author's Note:**

> "in persona they don't say 'i love you,' they say 'you really are intriguing,' and i just think that's beautiful."  
> (projects onto akechi) oh god oh fuck  
> the only things i know about coffee came from animal crossing  
> sorry if you wanted actual smut, i can't write it, it makes me laugh. i've never written anything like (gestures vaguely to the foreplay), and i'm literally 12 years old and don't know anything about the sex. nothing better than editing the borderline smut you wrote making dinner at 7:13 am  
> one day i'll write shuake in a functioning relationship with akechi being happy, but that day is not today. if you want to imagine, akira drags him back into the group and they're all friends now, canon who?  
> (epic backflip) kudos and comment if u enjoyed i'm gonna go back to writing kagehina


End file.
